Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Noritsu
Summary: I've stepped off the beaten path and written a story about Smokey the Monster. This story mostly deals with the possible ancient history of Smokie and how it came to be. Jack, Kate, & Charlie show up at the end. Oneshot.


This story has nothing to do with Macbeth, or the Ray Bradbury novel.  
I would like to thank all those who read my last LOST fic – the LOST/Chuck crossover story I wrote. Especially thanks to the three daring readers who left a review.  
**Storynote:** The introductory poem is mine. (I wrote it all by myself!) Also, this fic is set during Season 1.

**LOST**

**Something Wicked This Way Comes**

Authoress: Noritsu

Disclaimer

I **do not** own the LOST characters, or the LOST universe. They are copyrighted and belong to Damon Lindelof, Carlton Cuse, Bad Robot, and ABC.

The storyline, however, is mine. So, no pilfering, please. Thanks.

**TUN** Publishing Company

October, 2007

**T**he**U**sual**N**onsense

xxx

_It does what any security system is supposed to do. It protects the island. – Danielle Rosseau_

A is for the ancient curse  
That fell across the land

B is for the blackened cloud  
That strikes you where you stand

C is for the castaways  
So far away from home

Beware the crash that shakes like thunder  
**Something Wicked This Way Comes**

It was many long ages that they lay dormant under the ground. The remaining survivors of the ancient tribe had fled aeons ago to the other island where they could not follow.

For such was the spell that the priestess had cast over the land and the warriors that sacrificed themselves that night.

Yes, the protection against the marauders that sought to conquer them had come at last to the tribe, but at a terrible price.

For the fallen, there was no celebration.

Their souls doomed for an eternity to remain intertwined with the black roiling mass of smoke that served as their collective 'body', they could not breach the perimeter but hunted down and killed those who were folly enough to enter into the interior regions.

But that was many, many moons ago and there was nothing here for them now. More to the point, there was no one here for them to kill.

This had been their intended purpose on that fateful night when the black smoke poured from the cauldron and the priestess began her chant. Their very life essences were pulled from their bodies and sent to mingle with the smoke, the last resort of a war weary people who only wished for their would-be conquerers to go away and leave them in peace.

With the war over, the cloud of spirits was free to wander the island, traversing every last inch of it until they knew the flora, the fauna, the very earth itself, as well as the back of the hands they had once possessed when they lived in human form.

It was perhaps the cruelest of ironies that befell the tribe when the spirits found themselves moved to kinship by the islands many inhabitants.

Not the human ones.

Was not the island conquered by these people? The island was older than human life itself, and the people were not native themselves. Did it not stand to reason, then, that the people must go so the island could reclaim that which had been rightfully theirs before the tribe sailed upon the shores and took it away from them?

And so the cleansing war began.

Soul shattering screams for mercy rent the air but the spirit cloud was not moved. Many were killed, many were able to flee, many families were torn asunder.

When the tribal leader stumbled into the priestess' tent to beg counsel for what might be done, he found her already dead by her own hand. It was by her hand that this fateful turn of events had been set in motion. She could no longer bear to witness it.

The cleansing war ended, and the cloud of restless spirits roamed the land for many, many, a day and night, searching for any last stragglers that might have missed their chance during the initial flight to safety on the other island.

But there were none to be found and so it came to pass that the spirits slowly realized that they had outlived their intended purpose.

The pervading sense of loneliness threatened to drive them mad.

It was quiet.

It was _too_ quiet.

On a day when the sun shone brightly in the sky, unfiltered by clouds or mist, they attacked the great stone statues that stood like guardians, one on each side of the mouth of the river that flowed into the now fallen city.

A mindless act, surely it seemed, or would have, had anyone – any _living_ one – been there to witness it.

But to them, the sentinels represented the last evidence of the human enemies that invaded the island and sought to bend it to their will. Surely their mission would not be complete until these last remnants of their imposed society had been obliterated from the island.

For days they attacked the statues. Eventually, stress points developed, and fractures cracked and marred the sentinels, and the stone gave way, and the guardians toppled, leaving only the feet to be seen.

Now their mission was truly over, and there was nothing left for them to do except accept their unholy fate, and burrow into the ground to watch and wait.

Days stretched into weeks, into months, then years, and centuries, and finally a millenia had passed.

Then, one day, some new people came to the island. Into the ground they stuck their tools and lifted up great swaths of earth, and built their little huts and reburied them.

And in the process they awakened the spirits.

The cloud of lost souls found themselves roaming the island once again, seeking out the new invaders and subjecting them to the same fate as their ancient predecessors.

They discovered, however, that this new tribe was a much more stubborn lot than the previous one. These people didn't scare nearly as easily as the ancient ones did. In fact, this new tribe seemed rather intrigued by their presence.

When the spirits attacked them, they ran and hid. But they always came back.

Near the center of the island they built new dwellings, and dug out roads. The spirits tried to attack them there, but these new people were more adaptable. They built a structure around the dwellings that stung, and vibrated them whenever they came too near.

The spirits retreated and decided to wait.

They studied them from afar, they followed them from afar, they learned a new skill. They learned how to be cunning.

Soon, they applied this new skill to how they attacked the people. They sifted silently through the trees and the underbrush, and waited until they were close to them before they made their presence known.

Part of the thrill of the hunt was chasing down your hapless, frightened prey.

One by one the new people were whittled down in numbers. The underground huts were abandoned and they moved into the dwellings to cower behind the structure that the cloud of spirits could not pass through.

Eventually, some of the people decided to go away. They left and went to the other island where the ancient tribe had fled to long ago.

Hope that the remaining ones would follow soon faded and the spirits became restless and angry. Because for all the cunning they applied, for all the vengeance they tried to exact, they could not move these people from the island.

At some point the spirits realized that new animals were being introduced into the habitat. Like the strange growling, roaring animal covered with white fur.

Many years again passed and the lost souls were forced to resign themselves to the fact that they must live with these invaders until a better solution for removing them could be found.

On a particularly pleasant day, when the air was cool and the clouds were moving through the sky at a leisurely pace, the spirits were feeling a bit aggravated because they hadn't killed anyone in a while.

It was on this day that some new people came again to the island.

This time, they fell out of the sky.

The spirits sifted silently through the forest floor and made their way as close to the sealed perimeter as they could. And then they made their presence known.

The trees shook as violently as the earth. The sound of twisting metal, and thundering footsteps, and splintering wood echoed through the forest.

The cloud retreated and lay in wait.

Sure enough, after some time had passed, three of the people ventured further into the forest. They crawled into some oblong structure and were inside for quite a while.

This did not sit well with the spirits. Once again they made their presence known.

One of the people, in a foolish act of bravery, crawled out of the structure to see what the noise was.

The spirit cloud was waiting for him.

They reared up and plucked the man from the tip of the structure. The man smelled of sweet fresh flesh and blood. Immediately they began to slam him back and forth against the trees. Frightened screams emanated from inside the structure which slid down the trunk of the tree it rested against.

But these sounds were of little importance to the spirits.

The sound of bones breaking, and shattering, the sound of muscles tearing, and cartilage crunching; these were the sounds that satisfied them, these were the sounds that quenched their thirst, renewed their purpose.

Back and forth they slammed the man, crushing his body from within and without. Blood came forth from inside the man, covering him like a goulish shroud.

When the man was no more than a gelatinous sack of smashed flesh and bone the spirits were finally appeased. Sated, they tossed the man on a branch and turned without a second thought.

The cloud of souls left as silently as they had come.

Once again there was hope. Hope that their purpose had come again. Hope that perhaps these people might be easier to kill than the Others.

They made their way back to their hole in the ground and burrowed in to wait.

lostlostlost

Charlie, Jack, and Kate stared in mute, horrified silence up at the poor destroyed pilot resting near the top of the tree.

Shivers of fear still coursed through them, and the only reason they hadn't continued with their mad, screaming dash back to the safety of the beach was the morbid curiosity they each seemed to be seized with as to the outcome of the pilot's encounter with the monster.

And in each one of them there resided a feeling that they wished they hadn't.

Charlie found his voice first.

"What _exactly_ does that sort of thing to a person?"

Jack shook his head.

"I don't know, Charlie. I don't know."

finis

* * *

I sincerely hope you enjoyed my foray into the strange and scary consciousness of Smokey the Monster. You may read what you wish into my particular take on Smokey's possible history/origins.

I didn't address the fact that Ben helped the 'hostiles' mass kill the Dharma folks because this whole 'hostiles' backstory is so vague and sketchy. Richard was dressed in a suit and tie when he was talking to Juliet at Mittlos, and yet, when they did the flashback scene from years earlier with 'young Ben' he was dressed like a hippie! Who knows if the writers will choose to flesh that out more or not? I just decided it would be best to stay away from that whole mess.

Anyway, please feel free to leave a review. Just push the button (but not every 108 minutes).

TTFN, Nori  
_what's a garden without guava?_


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